


Killer Fang

by Coragyps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coragyps/pseuds/Coragyps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has the terrific idea of giving Derek a puppy.  </p><p>It’ll teach him responsibility!  Leadership!  It’ll be really cute!  And he’s home all day anyway!</p><p>Of course, nothing ever works out <i>exactly</i> as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not even know. This is ridiculous fluff, even for me.

 

It’s the yellow lab that tips him off.

They’re interviewing a coven of witches (witches are a thing! His life!) about love potions (yes! Really!) and one of them has a big, blond bull of a dog.

It apparently really loves Derek.

It’s a surprise, because, you know, _werewolf_. Stiles would assume dogs would hate them, Terminator-style. But this one did not seem to get that memo, because he is circling Derek’s legs and wagging his whole butt, shamelessly. Stiles would like to tell him to give up – he’s been wagging _his_ butt around Derek for years now, and still no dice – but then.

Derek crouches down.

Let’s himself be sniffed by a broad yellow muzzle.

_Scritches the dog behind the ears._

And seriously, Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever seen Derek look - happy before. He’s relaxed and smiling, petting the big head which lolls adoringly against his shoulder.

“So is this, like, your long-lost cousin or something?”

Derek closes his mouth with a snap, and Stiles realizes that he is an asshole.

“I’m an asshole,” he says at once. “Jeez, I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“It’s fine.” Derek stands up. With a movement of his hand, he waves the dog off, and it trots back to its owner willingly. Derek watches it go, his expression hard to read.

Stiles wishes he had kept quiet. Of all the times his big mouth has gotten him in trouble, watching that closed-off expression resettle over Derek’s face probably feels worst. It’s like watching the sun going behind a cloud, if you knew the sun would _probably never come out again_.

“Hey, so … ” he starts to say.

“It’s fine,” says Derek again. “We’re done here. Let’s get back.” He heads toward the Camero, which is waiting for him at the curb like a faithful companion.

Stiles starts to think.

-

“I think we should get Derek a puppy,” says Stiles, the next time he’s hanging out with Scott in the basement, playing World of Warcraft.

“What,” says Scott, horrified, “like, to eat?”

“Of course not, why would you say that - he loves dogs!” Stiles defends. “And they love him! Plus he’s home a lot, and has a good yard, which is important!”

The more he has thought about it, the better an idea this seems. Derek is, let’s face it, still struggling a little with being a good Alpha. And his pack is all mouthy teenagers, so that doesn’t help. But if he had a loyal dog to follow him around and obey his commands, it could build up his confidence – _and_ teach him responsibility. It’s perfect!

He does not share this theory with Scott, on the off chance he would realize it is kind of insulting to the Betas.

“I just … feel bad for the guy, you know?” he says instead, which is not a total lie either. “He’s like, this brooding pit of man-pain. Don’t you think a soft, cuddly puppy would just do him wonders?”

Scott puts down his controller, and scrunches up his entire face, presumably trying to picture this. “I dunno,” he says, doubtfully. “I still think he’d probably eat it.”

“Pleeaase?” Stiles whips out the big guns. “I’m evoking the bro code here. I let you practice kissing on me in the third grade. You have to help me find a puppy for Derek!”

Scott sighs, but bows to the power of the Bro Code. “Well … there is a new litter at the vet clinic. Someone brought the mom in as a stray. Deaton said he’d try to find good homes for them, although I really doubt he was thinking of _Derek_ …”

“Perfect!” Stiles rubs his hands together with classic bond-villain glee. “We’ll go tomorrow and pick one out.”

-

The puppies are _ridiculously_ cute. It reminds Stiles that he has always wanted a dog, that he in fact _needs_ a dog, and that except for a couple minor barriers – that neither he or his dad is home much, that (unless he dies first) he's probably leaving for college in a few years, and also his dad is allergic ( _but other than that!_ ) - he would make a terrific dog owner.

He and Scott forget all about picking out a puppy for Derek and instead spend a solid hour and a half playing with the puppies, naming each of them, asking them who is a good boy (they are! Yes they are!), and laughing and their rolly-polly waddling walk.

The mother, lying in the dog bed nearby, looks like a big golden retriever, but kind of reddish colored. The puppies all take after her, and when Stiles eventually remembers his plan to bring one to Derek, he thinks it’s a good thing that they will probably be a pretty big size; he doesn’t want to insult Derek’s masculinity by bringing him, like, a miniature poodle. He needs something that can keep up with a wolf, not ride around in a teacup.

After much explanation and solemn discussion between Stiles and the puppies (Hellfire III, Vermin Slayer, and Killer Fang – names befitting their noble, warrior-esque bearing, he and Scott have decided) Stiles selects the largest, fattest, roundest puppy as the one for Derek.

He picks it because it pees on Scott. He thinks Derek will appreciate that.

Also, that’s how they learn that Killer Fang is a boy.

-

“Okay, Fang,” says Stiles, as they drive together in the Jeep towards the wreck of Derek’s family home. Fang stops chewing on the seam of the seat covers and listens attentively. “The first step is going to be getting him to keep you. He’s going to be all like, _‘brood brood, I can’t have nice things, oh the man-pain’_ about it, so you’re going to have to really dig deep and break through that initial resistance, okay?

Stiles has already realized that the explanation, “I thought you could practice your leadership skills on something less intimidating than a teenager,” will probably not fly. Particularly if it is intimated that the thing Derek is best capable of dominating is the fluffy, pot-bellied puppy that passed most of the ride sleeping in Stile’s elbow, after having peed in his coat pocket.

That would probably get _Stiles_ eaten, if not the puppy.

So Stiles plans to do what humans do when they really want something: he plans to lie.

“Derek!” he hollers, as soon as he parks the car in the driveway. “My dad won’t let me keep this puppy! Can you take him?”

Derek has come out of the house at the sound of the Jeep pulling up, and is standing on the porch watching coolly as Stiles approaches, carrying Fang.

“Please? He has nowhere else to go!”

Derek has a thing for strays, right? As evidenced by the current members of his pack.

“No,” says Derek. He looks like he’s working up to some brooding man-pain about it.

“His name is Killer Fang!” says Stiles, hopefully, holding up the puppy under the arm pits. Short, chubby legs bicycle in the air.

“No, it’s really not,” says Derek flatly.

“Well, what do you want to call him then?”

Derek looks at the puppy. “‘Leaving’?” he suggests.

“Oh right, I forgot about how all Hales must have two-syllable names,” says Stiles. “Well, you can go with “Killer Hale,” or “Fangie Hale,” if you’d rather. But look at him, he needs you, and he’s just a baby!”

He holds the puppy out to Derek, who makes no move to take him. Fang squirms in his hands, straining not to get away, but to twist around and lick someone's cheek.

Derek does not look impressed.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles persists, aiming the puppy’s Wet Eyes of Doom at Derek. _You will take this puppy,_ he communicates to Derek, telepathically. _You must take this puppy_.

“I can’t take care of a dog, Stiles,” says Derek. “Have you asked Scott?”

“I’ve asked everyone, ever!” Stiles says. “I have communicated with all people in Beacon Hills. And all of them were like, the one person who can take this puppy is that nice Hale boy. He is really good with animals and doesn’t seem to have a job, so he’s home all day.”

“Nobody said that,” says Derek.

“Omigod, please take this puppy before I drop him! Just for a few days, until I find someone else, I promise!”

Stiles tries his own Wet Eyes of Doom.

Derek comes forward, reluctantly. Fang squirms with additional enthusiasm as he gets close, and whines pitifully.

 _Touch the puppy. Hold the puppy._ Like a good salesman, Stiles knows the minute the merchandise leaves his hands, he’s most of the way there.

“He’s been really lonely,” Stiles sells it. “I think he misses his brothers and sisters.”

Derek reaches out and touches the top of the puppy’s furry head. _Bingo._ Fang twists his neck around, trying to lick and nip playfully at the fingers, but he can’t reach.

“He’s really little,” says Derek, doubtfully. “Shouldn’t he be with his mother?”

“Deaton says they’re good to go!” says Stiles. Well, Scott said so, anyway. “I tried taking him home with me, but it turns out my dad is allergic, who knew! And all the other puppies are gone, this is the only one who doesn’t have a home!”

“Just for a couple of days?” asks Derek, suspicious.

“Absolutely! I recognize it would not be good for your big bad wolfie street cred, to be walking around with li’l Fang over here.”

“His name isn’t Fang,” says Derek firmly.

 _That’s right, name the puppy. Keep the puppy._   “I don’t know, dude, I’m pretty sure that’s his name. He already answers to it and everything. Hey, Killer Fang! Look at me, boy!”

The puppy is busy trying to look everywhere at the same time, so it’s possible he glances over in Stiles’ direction somewhere around the time his name is called.  Or not.

Derek is scowling.

“He’s really heavy,” Stiles lies blatantly. “Can you take him for a minute?”

Derek holds out one palm, reluctantly, under the puppy’s butt. Stiles lets Killer Fang drop into his hand. _Touchdown!_   Even the mighty Derek Hale, Master of Glowering, can’t keep his facial features from softening slightly when that fuzzy rump hits his hand and immediately starts tail-thumbing.

Stiles is pretty sure Fang isn’t going anywhere.

“I’ve got all the stuff in my car!” he says, brightly. He turns around, ignoring the ache in his chest that comes from maybe secretly wanting to take the puppy home with _him_ , and starts unloading, promising himself he’ll come visit. Every day. Meanwhile he bought out PetSmart with his allowance, so Derek better damn well appreciate this opportunity to grow his heart two sizes.

“Stiles, I’m not going to need all this stuff,” says Derek, looking with alarm at the bags of dog kibble Stiles is setting out on the driveway. “I’m only going to have him for a few days.”

“Puppies eat a _lot,_ ” says Stiles earnestly. He’s also got a leash and collar, two doggie dishes, and these quilted pads that are supposed to help the puppy housetrain. And a dog bed. And some treats. And lots of toys.

What? This is as close as Stiles is getting to his life-long dream of having a dog, at least any time soon.

He's going to be over _twice_ a day.

He looks up to see Derek lifting the puppy into the air to check the sex, then absentmindedly running a hand over the puppy’s fluffy back. Fang’s tongue is waggling in ecstasy.

“Oh my gosh, I just remembered I have to go home right now!” says Stiles, hopping back in the Jeep. He wants to stay, but he knows new parents need time to bond.

“Stiles!” says Derek.

“Goodbye! Thanks Derek! Have fun, Fang!” Stiles puts the car in reverse.

“Stiles, get back here!”

In the rear-view mirror, Stiles watches Derek, cradling the puppy in one arm as Fang bites enthusiastically at the cuffs of his leather jacket. His expression, aimed at the back of Stiles’ jeep, is murderous. But just as Stiles pauses to turn back on the main road, he sees Fang stretch up to delicately lick Derek’s nose.

 _Stick it to ’em, Fang,_ thinks Stiles, peeling out.

Derek doesn’t stand a chance in Hell.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s unfortunate, but even Stiles has to admit that Fang is not growing into a very bad-ass dog.

For one thing, he’s on the small side. Deaton apparently now suspects the father might have been the Greenburgs’ cocker spaniel, Mr Floppy. Stiles is guessing Derek would’ve picked, like, a Rottweiler, or a German Shepherd … maybe a Doberman.

“You gave Derek a _cocker spaniel?!"_ snickers Scott, when he hears about it. “Man, that is so perfect! It’s even got _cock_ in the name!”

“Uh... What?!”

“Dude, just admit it – you totally want Derek’s Mr. Floppy!”

 _His life_.

Despite Stiles’ assurances that Fang could be useful as a guard dog, or at least an early warning system … well, he’s a lover, not a fighter. There’s nothing intimidating about him, from his goofy smiling face, to his all-paws-and-tail physique. He just looks undeniably like a suburban pet, like he wants to spend his day wrestling with little kids and napping on a couch. And he greets everybody, even strangers, even the _vet_ , with equal enthusiasm.

Frankly, Stiles is not sure Fang actually knows how to growl.

He also isn’t exactly easy to train. Stiles can’t get Fang to do anything – not sit, or stop yapping, or roll over, or fetch. Stiles can’t keep Fang from trying to jump up and bite Stiles’ ears.

Not to criticize Derek’s style of parenting, but this is at least partly because he won’t implement any of the techniques recommended by the internet. He won’t crate-train Fang, or give him treats, or try any of the corrections that Stiles printed out for him (not even the water bottle, which Stiles thinks sounds like a fairly gentle technique). He won’t put him on a leash at all – maybe he thinks it’s demeaning, Stiles has no idea.

Derek seems to mostly pretend that Killer Fang (who he has taken to calling _Sam_ , which makes no sense to Stiles but whatever), doesn’t exist.

But Fang adores Derek. Like, shamefully. He waddles around after him everywhere, with doggy devotion in his eyes and love in his heart (and piddle in his bladder).

Stiles hasn’t seen Derek bestow any affection on the dog at all, but so far Fang is still alive, so someone is obviously feeding him and taking him out regularly and, presumably, taking care of his emotional needs.

Luckily for everyone, but maybe especially for Fang, it’s summer and Stiles has lots of free time to devote to his new … pet project. [ _“Stop calling it that!” says Derek, his eyes flashing red. “Nobody likes puns!”_ ].

This morning’s text is a good sign that Derek appreciates his contributions:

**-Need u to dogsit. Thats not a rqst -DH**

Who the hell taught Derek to text? Stiles wonders, getting dressed. _Hey, Derek, the year 2000 called - it wants you to know that everyone has an unlimited plan and a keyboard on their phones now._

Still, he gets himself over to the burned-out wreck of the Hale house, where Derek and Fang are currently crashing.

Fang runs out in the driveway as the Jeep approaches, tail wagging wildly, and Stiles has to park so he won’t hit him. “Hey, little guy! Yes, I missed you too! Whosa big puppy, huh? Issit you? Issit you?”

“Stop that,” says Derek, looking sick. As per usual, he appears out of nowhere by the side of the car. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

“Well, how do you talk to him?”

“I don’t talk to him at all! He’s a dog!”

This seems a little biased to Stiles – isn’t Derek kind of a dog? But he manages to keep from asking.  “It’s good for dogs to learn that humans are nice,” he defends himself.

Derek looks skeptical, and Stiles wonders suddenly if _Derek_ has really learned that humans can be nice. _Whosa good Derek?_ Stiles imagines saying. _Is it you? It is you!_ He wonders if Derek would roll over for him like Fang, baring his tummy for a belly-rub.

Tries to stop thinking about it.

“I have to take care of something for a few hours,” says Derek. “Don’t let him pee in my house.”

Privately, Stiles doesn’t see what harm a little puppy piddle can do in a house that is technically condemned, but he has learned to keep his observations on this topic to himself. “Can do, capt’n!” he says, saluting sharply.

“Whatever,” says Derek. “Sam – stay.” He picks up his jacket, even though it’s summer and he can’t possibly need one. Stiles tries not to notice the tooth-marks at the collar.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks.

“None of your business.” Derek turns around and stalks off. Fang sits his fat rump on the ground and watches him, whining pitifully.

“It’ll be okay, little guy,” says Stiles, draping an arm around the puppy’s shoulders. “Daddy’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, look at this new chew toy I brought you!”

Except when he turns around, Fang is _gone_.

-

“Fang! Bad dog! Come _here._ ”

Stiles scrambles to keep the wagging tail in sight through the branches of the trees.

"Heel!"

They’re pretty far into the forest, and it’s possible Stiles is already lost.

“C’mon, here, doggie! Come here!”

Fang ignores him and keeps running.

Stupid mutt.

-

It’s maybe five hours later when Derek finds him, pushing aside the branches and blinking up at Stiles. “Are you stuck up a tree?”

“I had a plan,” says Stiles. “This wasn’t it.”

Fang runs circles around Derek’s feet, yipping enthusiastically, begging to be picked up.

“Hi Fang! You’re here! I missed you! Did you go fetch help?”

“No, he came home on his own and took a nap for an hour,” says Derek. “I was the one looking for you.”

“Bad doggie, Fang!” says Stiles, trying to ignore the cramps in his fingertips. “We don’t lose Stiles in the woods. You were supposed to go get the police, like Lassie, not wag your butt at Derek and beg for treats.”

“I thought you might have at least fallen down a well,” Derek says.

There are buzzing little blue points of light swarming all around, and Stiles ducks in closer to the trunk to avoid them. “Derek,” he says, weakly. “There are little fairies attacking me. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” Derek says flatly. “Because I can see them. Did you get stung?”

“Not yet, but only because I haven’t actually moved in twenty minutes. I don’t think I register as a threat.”

“That’s understandable,” says Derek, with a sigh.

“I was going to start a fire or something, use the smoke to drive them off. You know, like with bees?”

“And?”

“... It turns out I’m afraid of bees.”

Derek waves a blue ball of light away from his face. “Come down from there,” he says.

“But … freaky little fairy things!”

“Stiles, they’re just pixies,” says Derek, impatiently. “They’re harmless as long as you don’t disturb their sacred tree. How did you even manage to piss them off this bad?”

“I had to pee,” says Stiles humbly.

Derek grits his teeth. “You pissed on their sacred tree?”

“In my defense, it looks exactly like a regular tree.”

“I left for two hours, and you found the one sacred tree in the forest. And peed on it.”

“… I'm just lucky, I guess?”

Fang jumps up to snap at a pixie, catching the wings between his teeth.

“ _Sam_ ,” Derek snarls.

Fang drops the pixie at once and trots happily over to the tree to bite at Derek’s shoelaces.

“How’d you get him to do that?” asks Stiles, dumbfounded. “I was calling him for hours and couldn't even get him to look at me!”

Derek rolls his eyes.  “Stiles, _come here._ ”

Stiles instinctively starts shuffling down the branch.  “I guess you’re just naturally calm-assertive,” he mutters.

He yips at a sudden burn in his shoulder blade. Twisting around, he can see a red mark on his shoulder and a sprinkle of pixie dust. “It bit me!”

Derek snarls, swatting wasp-like pixies out of the air with his transformed paws. “Get out of the tree,” he orders, snapping his teeth as another pixie bites the dust.

Stiles scrambles down, but his legs are numb and un-coordinated. The pixies are swarming but Derek is keeping them at bay. There’s a bloody welt on his temple, and his lips are swollen, presumably with venom.

Stiles limps over to his side, almost tripping over Fang en route.

“Are you hot? I’m like, really hot. I mean –” he smiles dopily “– obviously I know _you’re_ hot …”

Derek sighs, hauling Stiles’ arm over his shoulder. “I think you’re delirious,” he says. “Sometimes the effects of pixie bite can mimic heatstroke.”

“You can stroke me anytime,” Stiles slurs, leaning his weight unsteadily against Derek.

“… Let’s go.”

“Derek,” says Stiles, as they walk through the trees, stumbling occassionally when the dog gets underfoot. “Would you like to take my butt virginity? My … butt-inity?”

“ _Walk_ , Stiles.”

“I think about it, all the time. Your dick. My ass.  What it would be like."

“You’re high,” Derek says, sounding tired. “One foot in front of the other, there we go.”

“Don’t you ever think about it?” asks Stiles, plaintively. 

“Shh. You’ll feel better soon.”

They walk, Stiles barely able to lift his feet, Derek slowing his stride to keep pace. Fang, bouncing between them like an electron.

By the time they make it back to the house, Stiles doesn’t think he can tackle the stairs. He whines, tired and overwrought.

Derek wraps an arm around his waist, hauls him in close. 

"I wonder if it would hurt, being fucked," Stiles warbles. "What do you think?"

He's flying. Their heads are suddenly very near together. He closes his eyes, blissful.

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Stiles,” Derek whispers, close to his ear.

Stiles loses track of the action after that.

-

“Did I get bitten by a pixie today?” asks Stiles. “That happened, right?”

He’s sitting on the toilet seat, surrounded by surprisingly clean white tile. Who would have guessed the ruined house had a functional bathroom?

Derek is silent, but his hands don’t pause, wringing out the damp washcloth to lay over the bite. Icy cold droplets slid down Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re fine,” he says, gruffly. “It’s not much worse than a beesting. Sometimes humans experience a … minor narcotic effect.”

Stiles tries to remember. “Did I ask you to take my butt-inity?” he asks, thoughtfully.

Derek declines to answer. He looks down at Fang, who is curled up in Stiles’ lap. He just gives him a _look_ , not even a word or a hand signal, and Fang jumps down, like he somehow knew exactly what Derek wants him to do.

Some mystical werewolf crap, apparently.

“You shouldn’t have been running around the woods by yourself,” says Derek, opening the front of Stiles’ shirt. Presumably to check for any other bites, although Stiles can think of some better reasons. “There’s worse things than pixies out there.”

“But – Fang was missing … ” says Stiles pitifully. “I had to find him!”

“He’s a dog, he can take care of himself. Which is more than I can say for some people.”

“That puppy is like our baby,” says Stiles muzzily. Okay so maybe he’s not entirely clear of the venom yet.

“Oh my God, shut up.”

Derek’s hands are gentle as they pull the shirt back up over Stiles’ shoulder. He picks up the squirming puppy off the floor, where he’s been biting the end of the toilet paper roll, and offers him back to Stiles.

“Hey Derek,” says Stiles, accepting the warm weight on his lap. “How’d we get into this bathroom?" The last thing he remembered was the sight of the front porch.

“Your knees went out from under you on the stairs,” says Derek. “I thought you were going to crack your head open.”

“But I didn't, right. I caught myself?”

Derek spares him a scornful glance.

“Didn't I? I totally did, right? Like, in a very masculine way.”

Derek looks away.

“You caught me, didn’t you,” says Stiles, with his eyes closed. “You caught me and cradled me close. Like a new mother with a little tiny newborn baby. Like the tenderest babe that e’re suckled at its mother’s breast!”

“What.”

“You caught me and then _carried me up the stairs_ ,” Stiles groans tragically. “Like grumpy little kid! A sticky-fingered, overtired toddler that needed a nap!”

“Stiles.” Derek curls one hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, pinching just enough to tug the skin. “Settle.”

“Dude!” says Stiles, snapping out of it. “I’m not a bad puppy! You can’t _scruff_ me.”

Derek tugs a little harder and Stiles feels himself go limp.

“There you go,” says Derek, calmly.

Stiles thinks he whimpers.  Fang stretches up to helpfully lick the corner of his mouth.

“Sit, stay,” Derek mocks quietly. “Heel. Good boy Stiles, good boy.”

“You’re mean,” Stiles bleats. “Acting like I’m a puppy."  Then his face lights up. "Wait a minute … You _like_ puppies!”

Derek scoffs. 

“You do, I've seen it!  ... Do you also, maybe, you know ... like _me?_ ”

“Actually I'm beginning to think I’m more of a cat person,” says Derek, rolling his eyes. But he leaves his hand where it is, and his thumb traces over the bump at the top of Stiles’ spine.

“Omigod you should have told me that! Greenburg has a ginger tabby that JUST had, like, twelve kittens! And Derek, they’re sooo cute! We should get _all the kittens!_ …”

 


End file.
